[The Highlander]

Amy Brigand-Anderson used with the permission of Iczerman, all other non historical characters are mine.

This is my second attempt at a story so any coments/criticism is welcomed.

Heroes and Hellfire, an Amy Brigand-Anderson fanfic

Part 1

Amy had been surprised when she received the invite from the Royal Scottish Art Gallery in Edinburgh inviting her to their latest exhibition ‘Heroes through the ages’. She thought at first someone might have heard of her adventures, but then realised that any gallery would be desperate to have such a famous (and beautiful) billionaire attend the opening of their latest exhibition. Nevertheless, as she entered the gallery she could not shake the apprehension that something was amiss.
Putting it down to paranoia, she accepted the greetings of the curator (after he had stopped looking at her chest), accepted a glass of Champaign from a happy looking waiter and started to walk round the exhibition. The exhibition mostly consisted of paintings, some portraits of famous heroes, some of battle scenes. There were also several cases displaying collections of medals along with a handful of artefacts on display. Amongst these was the sword of William Wallace, a massive two handed claymore (but smaller than Amy’s own sword!).
As she wandered round however, Amy began to get rather bored. A few of the exhibits were known to her, like the story of how king Leonidas and his 300 Spartans had fought to the death against a quarter of a million Persians at Thermopylae. Most of the exhibits however, meant nothing to her. She was standing examining one particularly vivid painting when she heard a voice behind her. This painting depicted a night seen, lit by burning tanks and flashes of gunfire. A figure in the foreground was standing on top of a tank, waving two flares.
“Admiring my painting?” asked the voice in a faint Scottish accent. Amy spun round to find a man standing behind her. Even without the uniform he was wearing it was obvious that he was a warrior. The stranger was about 5’8”, with a lean build covered with whip like muscles that spoke of great potential strength. He carried himself upright with an almost palpable aura of confidence and power. His every appearance gave the impression of a highly skilled and experienced soldier. He was wearing a khaki uniform jacket with gold braid over a white shirt and a dark green tartan kilt, complete with sporran. He had a light brown cap on with three badges. The first showed an eagle with two guns crossed behind it, over a banner with the word ‘Waterloo’ on it. The second showed a winged dagger over a banner with the words ‘Who Dares Wins’ and the third showed a thistle over a deer’s head. Underneath was a banner with the words ‘Cuidich n righ’ on it. The figure had a long strait sword with a basket hilt (which Amy supposed was a fake) in a scabbard at his waist, and a row of medals on his chest. The left-hand medal was a bronze cross with a crown and lion inside, with a scroll on which was written the words ‘For Valour’. But it was the stranger’s face that first drew her attention. It was a long, thin face, framed by short brown hair and with a clipped brown moustache. The face was worn like old leather, with a long scar running down the left-hand side and a small circular scar on the right cheek. But the most striking feature of the face was the dark green eyes. They looked straight ahead (Amy noted that the stranger didn’t look at her chest once), hard and utterly devoid of emotion. The whole figure gave the appearance of a ruthless, professional soldier.
“Your Painting?” Amy asked in confusion, glancing back at the painting. Then she saw the small picture by the side of the painting. It was the stranger. She looked back at him, confusion evident in her face. “Allow me to introduce myself,” the stranger said, recognising her confusion. “Captain Alan Munro, VC, MC and bar, DSO and bar, currently commanding B Company of the 1st Battalion, The Highlanders Regiment of her majesty’s British Army at you service and that,” pointing at the painting “is a panting of me winning my Victoria Cross.” Alan gave a little bow, and smiled. Amy noted however that his eyes remained as hard as ever.
Alan then told Amy the story of how one night when inspecting his company’s Warriors (Note, Warriors are the British army’s front line armoured personnel carriers (APCs). Each warrior weighs 30 tonnes, had medium amour, is armed with a 30mm cannon, a machine gun and carries a crew of 3 plus 7 passengers) a distress call had come from an American platoon that they were under attack from enemy tanks. Alan had called up the Warrior crews and led them into the attack. By careful manoeuvring he managed to get behind the enemy tanks (where the 30mm cannons could penetrate their amour) and then launched a lightning attack with his command tank in the lead. The enemy tanks were taken completely by surprise and after 4 of their tanks were knocked out the remainder retreated. The painting depicted a scene near the end of the battle. Alan had stood on top of his warrior waving a flare, in full view of the enemy, to provide a rally point for the American platoon. Thanks to Alan’s quick thinking, tactical skill and courage the Americans were rescued for the loss of only one warrior damaged.
It was an astonishing tale, but what impressed Amy almost as much as the story was the way Alan told it. Alan hadn’t emphasized his role, or tried to clam all the glory, but had told the story simply and straight forwardly. “Good thing I was familiar with tank combat, though last time I was in a Challenger 2 (Note, Challenger 2s are the British army’s front line battle tank)” Alan said, laughing. “What do you mean last time?” asked Amy, confused. “My first regiment was an armoured unit” Alan replied, removing his cap and looking at the badges. “The Royal Scots Dragoon Guards (indicating the badge with the eagle) I joined them 10 years ago when I was just 21. Spent two years in Challengers, then moved to the recon section. Won my first medal with them, a Distinguished Service Order for the handling of my squadron in action” Alan continued “after three years I applied to join the Special Air Service (indicating the badge with the winged dagger), passed selection and spent the next four years with them, fighting all over the world. Everything from intelligence gathering to hostage rescue. Won both my Military Crosses while with the SAS, but unfortunately the operations were classified, so if I told you I would have to kill you. And I wouldn’t won’t to have to do that.” Alan said, smiling. “After four years I left the SAS and was transferred to the Highlanders infantry regiment as a company commander (indicating the third badge). The motto is Gaelic and means ‘save the king’ by the way. I’ve served the last 3 years as the commander of B Company, winning another DSO for coolness and skill under fire while commanding a retreat. That’s also where I got this (pointing to the scar on the left side of his face), shrapnel wound from an airburst mortar round. But enough about me, how are you enjoying the exhibition?”
Amy explained how she knew nothing about most of the exhibits, drawing a derisive snort from Alan. “What do they teach people these days? Well, why don’t I take you round and tell you all about the exhibits,” Alan said offering Amy his arm. Amy thought about at it for a second then took the proffered arm. “Led on then” she replied.

*********

Alan proved to be an exceptionally knowledgeable and interesting guide. Amy saw a painting of the 24th South Whales Borders stand at Rorke’s Drift, where less than 150 men had held their ground all day against over 4000 Zulus, in the world’s first edible fortress (it was made from biscuit boxes and bags of meal!). She heard the story of Assaye in India, where less than 6000 British and Indian solders, led by Sir Arthur Wesley (later known as the Duke of Wellington) had marched through a hail of cannon fire to rout a force of over 80000 Mahrattas. The crown of King Robert the Bruce of Scotland was on display, and Alan told how in 1314, with just 5000 men drawn from the length and breadth of Scotland, he had marched against King Edward II English army of over 20000 men and driven them back into England (to think again as the song goes). Amy was amazed by the story of Panfilov’s Heroic twenty-eight, the survivors of and entire battalion of Russian infantry who, in the terrible winter of 1941 at the gates of Moscow destroyed 14 German tanks with grenades and Molotov cocktails (petrol bombs). The last of them to die was their leader, who crawled under a tank with a bundle of grenades and blew himself and the tank to peaces. But she was most surprised when Alan showed her the pictures of German heroes. As he was telling her about the famous German tank ace, Michael Wittmann, who at Villers-Bocage in Normandy destroyed 25 British tanks in a single afternoon, bringing their whole advance to a halt, she ask why Alan respected him so much. “Wasn’t he an enemy of Brittan’s?” Alan smiled and replied “I can respect anyone’s courage, even my enemy’s.” Amy was impressed, not many people could respect their enemies.
Amy enjoyed hearing the stories behind the exhibits, but more than that she enjoyed how Alan told each story. In each case, Alan knew the background to each conflict, the tactics and strategies involved and even what weapons were used. But more than that, Alan had a real talent for storytelling. When he talked about Waterloo where British infantry that had spent the day under hellish artillery fire had stood firm and routed Napoleon’s elite Imperial Guard with their murderous volley fire, the furious dogfights of the Battle of Brittan or the terrible tank duels of Kursk in Russia, where Hitler’s army’s had been bled dry, it made her feel like she was right in the thick of the action. She could almost smell the gunsmoke.
Alan had just finished showing Amy round the RAF section of the exhibit, housed in a small off-shoot of the gallery. The room was circular, about 10 meters in diameter, with a high glass ceiling and a number of heavy stone seats set at intervals round the room away from the walls. The pair were alone in the room which contained paintings of some of the RAF’s most famous pilots and commanders such as Wing Commander Guy Gibson. Amy had been amazed by the story of how he won a Victoria Cross leading the famous “Dambusters” raid on the Möhne and Eder dams during the Second World War. Not only had he carried out his own bombing run, at extremely low level and in the face of heavy anti-aircraft fire, but he then flew ahead of the next two bombers as they each made the runs, drawing the defenders fire. But she had been astonished by the tale of Group Captain Douglas Bader. A fighter pilot during the 1920s, he lost both his legs below the knee in a horrific plane crash. Despite this handicap, he managed to re-join the RAF during the Second World War and led a squadron during the Battle of Brittan, becoming one of Brittan’s highest scoring pilots. He was later shot down and captured over France. After several escape attempts he finished the war in the infamous Colditz castle, the top security German prisoner of war camp.
As they turned to leave the room, Alan suddenly grabbed Amy’s arm and shoved her towards one of the stone seats yelling at her “GET DOWN!” Amy was caught completely off guard, by the time she realised what had happened she was already falling. A second later the ceiling of the room exploded.
Glancing up Amy saw figures dressed in black sliding down ropes, guns across their backs. Alan had happened to look up at the ceiling just as the attackers were setting their charges. His reactions, horned by years of combat, kicked in and he immediately dived for cover, pushing Amy ahead of him. The first five of attackers reached the ground and un-slung their guns just as a second wave started down the ropes. Amy ducked down behind the seat as one of the attackers opened fire, the bullets whipping overhead or cracking into the stone. She lay flat on the ground, hands over her ears, her mind whirling. Moments before, she had been enjoying a pleasant visit to a gallery with one of the most polite and interesting people she had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Now she was facing imminent death and the worsted part was she could do nothing about it. She had faced demons and monsters most people couldn’t imagine in their worst nightmares. She had preformed unbelievable feats of strength and skill but lying here with bullets flying over her head, none of that mattered. Here, life and death depended not on strength or speed not even on skill. Here it all came down to chance. A single lucky shot could kill her just as easily as a child. Amy realised that for the fist time in years, she was scared.
Her train of thought was violently broken by a new trio of gunshots, louder and nearer. Razing her head she saw Alan crouched down behind the seat, firing a pistol (he had apparently drawn from inside his jacket). One of the attackers sliding down the ropes suddenly jerked back, blood flying from the back of his skull as one of Alan’s shots hit him in the head. He hung there, suspended half way down the rope. The attackers already down fired a hail of bullets at him as he ducked back down, showering Amy with stone chips. Alan’s manner had changed completely. His face had become a grim mask, the eyes positively glowing with a furious energy. He moved with the same sort of fluid grace and confidence that Amy herself displayed when fighting and he betrayed not one outward sign fear.
Alan pulled something out of a pocket and threw it to her. As she caught it, Amy realised that it was a hand held radio. “Press the button and tell sergeant McClain that I’m under attack,” Alan yelled in a commanding tone, drawing a second pistol and rising up both guns blazing. Alan’s voice steadied Amy’s nerves, just as it had done to soldiers on dozens of battlefields before. Amy pressed the button on the radio and in a slightly shaken voice said “Sergeant McClain, Sergeant McClain are you there.” A gruff voice with a hard Scottish accent answered “Who the hell is this and how the hell did you get this frequency!” Ducking down again as another hail of bullets flew over-head to be answered by Alan’s pistols, Amy spoke again. “I’m with Captain Alan Munro in the RAF exhibit and we are under attack!” The voice on the other end of the radio paused for a second before replying. “What’s the code word” Amy turned to Alan who was busy reloading his pistol. “The codeword is Flodden” Alan yelled, rising up and firing his reloaded guns again. “Flodden,” Amy yelled into the radio, to be answered by a sharp curse. “We’re on our way” replied the voice, just as Amy ducked as yet another volley slammed into the stone seats.
“Tell McClain there are 8 X-rays with body armour, gas masks and MP-5s, one near the door three on the right wall and four in the centre” called Alan, rising up to shoot again. This time however before he could fire, a bullet slammed into his shoulder. The force of the impact spun Alan round and he fell back behind the seat, blood leaking from the wound. Amy stared for a second at the blood, before Alan pushed himself up again. His face was contorted but not with pain, with rage. He saw Amy staring dumbly at him and yelled at “send that message NOW,” shaking her back to reality. As she razed the radio and stated speaking, Alan smiled. “This is nothing, I’ve had worse injures from sex with my wife!” he said, rising up and firing once more. This time his volley of shots ended in a scream. “You can tell McCain there are now 7 X-rays”
Just as Amy finished relaying Alan’s message the radio crackled and Sergeant McClain’s voice reported “were at the room now, but the door is locked from the inside.”  Alan swore and yelled at Amy “tell them to blow the bloody door down then.”
As more shots came from the attackers, Alan yelled back at them “I’m going to give you one chance to surrender or face the consequences.”  The firing died away to be replaced by the sound of laughter. Alan looked back at Amy and smiled. “Well, I gave them a chance.” A second after Alan finished, the door to the room exploded.
The attacker standing next to the door died instantly, his body shredded by the blast and flying splinters from the door. Before the broken remains of the door had hit the ground figures were charging though bellowing war cries. They were tall men wearing a similar uniform to Alan’s (though without the medals and braid) the light glinting on the bayonets mounted to their rifles.  The attackers stood stunned for a second before diving for cover, too late for one man gunned down by the charging solders.
As the room erupted with new gunfire a shout next to Amy attracted her attention. It Alan, bellowing orders to his men. He had dropped the pistol form his right hand and drawn his sword instead. Amy saw immediately was a beautiful (and very real!) double edged broadsword, with a heavy 36” long blade, clearly a masterfully made and very lethal weapon. Suddenly, bellowing “Scotland Forever!” at the top of his lungs Alan vaulted over the stone seat and ran at full tilt strait towards the nearest enemy. After a split-second, Amy followed him over the seat and into the fight.

Alan reached his target first, swinging his sword down just as the figure turned. Before the man even had a chance to scream, Alan’s blade slammed into the side of his neck shattering the spine and severing several major blood vessels. The force of the blow threw the man sideways; he was dead before he hit the ground. Over in one corner of the room one of the attackers, his gun jammed backed away from two Highlanders who seamed to have forgotten the guns in their hands. As the man reached the wall he started jabbering for mercy, then screamed as the bayonets went in. The next man turned and razed his gun, but Alan backswung his heavy sword knocking the gun to one side as it fired. One of the bullets nicked his arm but he didn’t even notice as he stepped forwards and delivered a massive kick to this opponent’s groin. As the man staggered back, Alan razed the pistol in this left hand, paused for a second to let his opponent see his death coming, and put a bullet though the right-hand lens of his gas mask. One of the enemy turned his gun towards Amy but she grabbed it before he could fire, crushing the barrel. Before her opponent could recover, Amy delivered a short, sharp punch that knocked him clean out. Glancing round she saw that the fight was over. One enemy was lying on the ground, a bullet hole in his forehead. The only other survivor was face down on the floor, Alan’s pistol covering him.

Silence descended on the room, but it was instantly shattered by Alan shouting orders. Two solders grabbed his prisoner; one covered the unconscious form at Amy’s feet while the others started checking the remaining bodies for weapons. As Alan came over to her, Amy realised that she as shaking. Alan put an arm round her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze while holding something up. She realised it was a hip flask. “Drink this, it’s good for the nerves” Alan told her. Amy took a sip and immediately started coughing on the fumes from the strong whisky. As she shook her hear to clear it Alan noticed the mangled gun at her feet. He bent and picked it up, not seeming surprised at the damage done by Amy’s hand. “I thought there was something unusual about you, you had the same aura of power my wife has and she can bench a truck. Just how strong are you?” Alan asked. Before Amy could answer, on of the solders searching the bodies called out “Sir, I think you should have a look at this” holding something up. As Alan and Amy got closer, they saw I was an amulet that appeared to be made of jet back glass. “What the hell is this?” Alan said holding the object up to the light. But Amy recognised it instantly. “It’s an Obsidian talisman, it makes the wearer totally immune to all magic.” “Magic” Alan responded incredulously, and then a thought struck him. He bent down next to another of the corpses and checked the man’s neck. Sure enough he had a talisman just like the first. Amy realised that she had been feeling strange, almost weakened since the start of the attack. She hadn’t noticed at the time (being to busy avoiding bullets to notice much) but now she understood that the talismans had been blocking her magic. Straitening up and turning to face Amy he said “I don’t think you being here tonight was an accident. I think that someone sent you that invite to get you here, and then sent these men to kill you. The only question is why.” As Alan finished speaking he suddenly head the sound of running boots. A second later a dozen armed police swarmed into the room shouting. As Alan hurried over to deal with them he called to one of the solders “Private Harries, escort Amy back to her hotel and guard her tonight. I want her at the barracks by 1000hours tomorrow. Whatever this was about must have something to do with this magic and since she is the nearest thing we have to an expert she can advice me. Whatever this was about, it’s not over yet!”

End of part 1

I all ready have the plot for part two worked out but unfortunately I am both a slow and a lazy writer. Therefore you should not expect the other part anytime before mid 2007 at the earliest.

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